


Sticky Situation, A

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-18
Updated: 2008-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-15 03:50:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14783084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Josh finds himself in an unpredictable, sticky, and rather humorous situation.





	Sticky Situation, A

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

JOSH’S POV~ 

It’s mine and Donna’s first day off in ages. I mean AGES! And wouldn’t you just know it? I’m up with the sun. Isn’t that always the way? I considered getting Donna up for some early morning action, but she just looked so darn cute snuggled in bed, obviously enjoying her first morning to sleep in ages, and I couldn’t bring myself to do it, so I let her sleep. 

I know! Can you believe it? That’s me doing something considerate of Donna for a change. That’s me putting her before me. I’m getting pretty good at this being-Donna’s-boyfriend thing. 

So, you had to know I was going to spectacularly screw it up, right? 

I’ll tell you what happened, but only because I know you’re not going to go sell the story somewhere. I do recommend you put down any beverages you might be holding and not take a sip for a couple of minutes. 

So, I’m trying to figure out what to do with my free morning when I take a good look at my apartment. It is totally indicative of a man who spends hardly any time here, and pretty much runs home for a few short hours to touch base, dump stuff off, and pick up new stuff. It hardly looks distinguished enough to be the home of the Chief of Staff of the President of the United States, and the pretty much home of the Chief of Staff of the First Lady of the United States, since Donna’s here every night anyway. 

You know what I’m thinking? Time to lose the bachelor pad. Time to buy an actual house. When I’m going to have the time to house hunt and move, and coordinate all that with the secret service and the plans and schedules of the rest of the world, I’m not a hundred percent sure, but it’s going to have to be done. 

Well, I think we can all agree that I’m just going to have to ask Donna to officially move in with me and then make her do all the hard work. I mean, that’s really what our relationship is based on anyway. Besides, once I ask her to buy a house with me, my opinion on which said house we buy is really going to be non-existent in her head anyway. I’m just another signature on the mortgage. 

And I’m okay with that. 

Seriously, I am. I’m all about what makes Donna happy now. She’s put up with my shit for a long time, so I think she’s got some nice things coming her way. You know? 

So, anyway, as I look around this place, I see some things that are going to need to be done before we leave. So I spend a hour or so doing some odd things around the apartment. Now, it really doesn’t matter what I was actually working on at the time, but suffice it to say, I needed to crazy glue something. I know you’re rolling your eyes now at my home improvement skills. 

I’m okay with that. 

I’m the Chief of Staff to the President of the United States. I’m extremely effective at domestic, and yes, even foreign policy. My skills in the situation room are actually pretty good. I use the intercom now when I need my assistant; something about the President not wanting to listen to me bellow any more when he’s in the Oval; not really sure what that’s about there... 

Anyway, I digress. I’m okay with not being good with the home improvement thing. My skills where it counts are unparalleled. Don’t roll your eyes at me. You haven’t been blown to smithereens yet, have you? I’m not asleep at the switch. 

So, I go rooting through a drawer in the kitchen for some crazy glue and come up with a tube that’s obviously a little old. I’m careful when I remove the cap because I don’t know how close the glue is to the tip and this is some pretty powerful stuff. 

Trust me. I know of what I speak. 

Unfortunately. 

I place the tip of the glue to my project and gently squeeze. Nothing comes out. I try again. Niente. Nada. No. Glue. 

So, I turn the tube to face me. I’m just considering going to dig up a pin to try to clear the little hole when, I’m not kidding you, the glue comes shooting out from the tube in some unfathomably strong surge of super glue. I don’t even think I squeezed it. Maybe there was some properties of physics at work between the tube and the heat from my hand or something. But this crap shoots directly into my right eye! 

My eye, being a bit stunned by these events and admittedly a little slow on the uptake snaps shut and is instantly unable to open. A nanosecond later, my right hand comes smacking up and likewise gets stuck. I gently put the tube of glue down to avoid any further adhesive assistance when my left hand, without my permission comes flying up to the aid of my right hand. 

So, let’s take a moment to survey the damage, shall we? In the blink of an eye, so to speak, my right eye is glued shut, my right hand is glued to my face and my left hand is glued to my right hand. 

It occurs to me now that I’m going to have to wake up Donna. 

I make my way into the bedroom, tripping numerous times on the way. Once I get to the foot of the bed, I realize that with both hands currently stuck to my face, I have no way of shaking her to wake her up. 

Shit. 

“Donna.” I say gently and calmly. I repeat her name a few times before I see her begin to stir. 

“Baby, get up. You need to take me to the emergency room.” I say gently. Some dormant cell in her brain kicks into gear then and she bounds out of bed. It’s amazing how quickly she can move when she thinks I’m in some kind of distress. 

She’s pulling on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, and even one-eyed, I take a moment to admire her incredibly body. She stops abruptly and has finally now taken a look at me. She arches a questioning brow and not so gently asks, 

“Joshua, what the hell is wrong with you?” 

“Um...I accidentally crazy glued my eye shut.” 

To describe the look on her face right now as stunned, would be a gross understatement. It’s like...complete amazement. I can see her mind working. She wants to know how the Chief of Staff to the President of the United States, typically touted as one of the more brilliant men in America at the moment, and that’s not me being modest, ACCIDENTALLY crazy glued his eye shut. Well, baby, I’m right there with ya, because I really have NO idea how that happened. 

“All right. Let me see it.” she orders waving for me to take my hands away. 

“You can’t.” I reply. 

“Josh, don’t be a baby. Let me see it.” 

“No, Donna, you really can’t. See how my hands are on my face?” 

“You glued your hands to your face?!” 

“It was a natural reaction.” I defend. It was! Tell me if you shot crazy glue into your eye, you WOULDN’T put a hand up. Go ahead, try and tell me that, I dare you! 

“I’m going to have to get Rodney. Hold on.” She says as she starts to walk by me. 

“What?!” I yelp. What the hell does she need to involve the secret service for? I can only imagine what they’re going to change my code name to. 

“Well, I can probably use nail polish remover to unstick your hands, Josh, but I can’t use that on your eye. You’re right. We’re going to need to get you to a doctor. But the Chief of Staff can’t just waltz into the ER and wait to be seen.” She says. Shit. She’s right. Well, at least I took the time to get dressed. Of course, CNN will get footage of me in a faded Harvard shirt and khaki shorts, but it could be worse. I could have been shirtless or something. 

She disappears and returns a minute later with one of my agents in toe. He instantly tries to quash the urge not to burst out laughing. He is unsuccessful. I swear to God, the things these guys must see... 

“I’ll call in and see where they want me to take you.” He says. He turns and walks out of the room, and of course, I hear laughter from the vicinity of the living room. 

“Donna!” I whine. 

“Come on.” she grabs my hands and takes me to the bathroom where she seats me on the toilet and roots around under the sink, popping back up with Q-tips and nail polish remover. I have NOT a clue of what I’m doing with nail polish remover. She must have stashed it in there at some point over the last decade. How did I get so whipped by her that I let her put all this girly stuff in my apartment when we weren’t even having sex? How did I miss these signs that I was crazy in love with her? 

She makes short work of gently and competently removing my hands from my face. It feels good; they were getting tired there. She takes a look at my eye squinted shut and her lips disappear as she chokes back a burst of laughter. 

“I’m glad I can entertain you this morning.” I say. 

“I hope you don’t lose your eyelashes.” she says. 

“I hope I don’t lose the vision in my eye!” I snap back. I’m allowed to be snarky here, I think. 

Rodney comes back in. “Mr. Lyman, we’re going to take you to the sick bay in the White House. The doctor there can take care of this.” 

Please, oh please, let nothing blow up in the next hour. I can handle the ribbing I’m going to get from the staff. I can even handle sense of humor of the President, who at times, is extremely sophomoric. Just PLEASE don’t let me have to go into the situation room and face the brass like this! 

Donna hands me my sunglasses. God, I love this woman! 

“I love you.” I smile up at her. 

“Good thing.” she smiles back. “Because I think you’re stuck with me.” 

“You crack me up.” 

“Better than being stuck to me.” 

“Are you going to be appearing here all week, or...” 

“Let’s go.” 

“No pirate jokes.” 

“Oh, I don’t think THAT’S going to happen.” 

“I guess I can finally stop hearing about lighting the White House on fire.” 

“I wouldn’t count on that either.” 

THE END


End file.
